Diamond’s police career had put him in some unlikely places. This, by his standards, was among the most alien. Classical art was not his thing any more than music was. The pictures were hung in the style of the early nineteenth century, when the objective was to use as much wall space as possible. Large gilt-framed paintings from the Methuen family’s collection were suspended one above the other in twos and threes. To his eye the pictures looked sombre and repellent. He had no confidence that the music would be any more congenial.
A ripple of applause started and grew in volume. The quartet made their entrance. Ivan Bogdanov led them in, violin and bow in hand, a squat, bald figure in a white jacket and white bow tie that was their uniform. Even Cat Kinsella had a jacket over a white top and wore dark trousers like the others. Her waist size was probably more than twice Ivan’s. But she walked well and had no difficulty carrying her cello. Anthony Metcalf was the tallest, handsome, expressionless, indifferent to the audience. Finally came Mel Farran and he was definitely interested in the sea of faces, taking nervous glances as he moved towards the music stands. A strip of white bandage covered the outer edge of his left hand.
‘Pick your killer,’ Diamond said to Ingeborg and the woman in front of them stopped clapping and turned to see who had spoken.
The musicians took their places and spent a moment adjusting the lights on their music stands.
‘What are they going to play?’
‘It’s on the sheet,’ Ingeborg said out of the side of her mouth.
‘What sheet?’
‘On the chair when we came in.’
‘Ah.’ He’d been too interested in Paloma to notice. He shifted his weight to the left, delved under his thigh and retrieved it.
Beethoven, Opus 59, No. 3 in C major.
The quartet must have tuned their instruments off stage. Ivan gave a nod, put bow to string and they were straight into it.
19
‘Is that it?’ Diamond asked. The clapping had finished and everyone was moving.
‘Only the interval,’ Ingeborg said.
‘God help us.’
‘Be thankful for small mercies.’
He stood up to get the feeling back into his legs. The seats weren’t the most comfortable. At the same time he looked across to where Paloma had been.
She’d gone.
He’d spent much of the concert debating with himself whether to go over and speak to her. She had definitely spotted him. It seemed churlish to go through the evening without saying anything. Yet weeks had passed with no contact and the last words she’d spoken had been about as final as you can get between people in a relationship. He wasn’t good at peacemaking.
And yet …
If she’d come here alone, he told himself, he would have seized his chance. She might well have given him the frost, but at least the pain would be private to the two of them. The new companion – or whatever he was to her – made any approach a minefield. Diamond knew for sure that if the dog’s dinner pitched in with backchat or sarcasm he’d give him more than a mouthful, and what use was that? Paloma would side with her new man and a bad situation would get massively worse.
‘I’ll be back presently,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Oh, sure.’
Needing to get his head straight as well as pumping some blood into his legs, he stepped over to the nearest wall and stood in front of the pictures. They held as much interest for him as outdated copies of Country Life in a dentist’s waiting room. Reynolds, Romney and Rubens weren’t his choice of painters. The Diamond theory of art required scenes and figures that looked real, as these did, but not so laboured over that they lost all vitality. He preferred the style of Hockney, fresh, bold and cheerful.
‘Didn’t expect to find you here.’
He swung round and there she was. Give Paloma her due: she wasn’t letting their recent history stop her from speaking to him.
No problem now with circulation. Heart thumping, he managed to say, ‘Likewise. How’s it going?’
‘Fine. And you?’
‘Soldiering on.’
Something was different about her, apart from the hair colour. He realised her eyes were level with his. Those crazy heels made her taller.
But the eyes weren’t angry, as he’d seen them last. Her mouth curved upwards. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, string quartets were never mentioned.’
‘That’s for sure. I’m no expert.’
‘But it’s nice you’re giving it a try. The Staccati are about as good as it gets. Did Ingeborg persuade you to come?’
She’d spotted Ingeborg, then. What did she think – that he was dating one of his team? ‘No. I invited her in case I made a fool of myself clapping in the wrong places.’